Finding Home
by SillverMedal
Summary: ...Companion story to Saddles...It's a long way back, especially when you do not know where your home really lies.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of "King Arthur". It's impossible to own a legend, anyway.

A/N: Well, I'm back! This is the companion story to "Saddles", which you might want to read to get the full enjoyment out of this shorter story. However, if you are lazy and don't feel like it, then you'll find that you can read this one without the added difficulty of reading the other story first. Read on, and enjoy!

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"What I would give for a drink…"

Gawain raised a brow. "We have plenty of water-,"

"You know what I mean."

"Aye." He smiled.

Galahad flashed him a lopsided grin and sighed. He was content enough, in truth, but he'd always enjoyed a good bout of complaining. And now he had more than enough time for trivial pleasure, since his freedom had been granted. They'd been on the road home for three weeks now, and Gawain claimed they were in the right direction. Galahad claimed that they were hopelessly lost.

He did not remember much from his original journey into Rome, but he did know that it had been long and hard, going uphill most of the way.

Well, at least this time they'd be going downhill.

Their reward for risking their lives to protect a land nobody wanted anymore was having the easier way past a hill. Lovely.

He should be thankful he was alive to taste the dull water Gawain passed him. Should be thankful he was getting the opportunity to see his family again.

To see Amarra again.

"If we ride through the night, we can get out of the woods by the time that storm comes," Gawain stated, and Galahad snapped to attention.

"But," said the younger knight, shielding his eyes from the sun directly above them. "I don't see any clouds."

"Look at the trees, then-," Gawain protested, fetching the reins on his grazing horse and slinging his pack over his back.

"I'd rather not." Galahad said disgustedly, ignoring his companion's amused look. "It means we're not home yet."

Gawain sighed and mounted his horse. "Let's get going, then. Sooner we get there, sooner we find out-," he suddenly broke off and looked determinedly ahead, his face blank and void of anything.

Galahad frowned and grabbed his horse. "What?"

Gawain shook his head quickly. "Nothing."

Galahad mounted and rode up to his friend so that he could look into his eyes. He swallowed heavily and shut his eyes briefly.

"You-you think they're all dead." His voice shook slightly, and he cursed himself for the weakness.

However, the other knight did not reply, only kicked his mount into a fast trot, to try and outrun a storm that Galahad did not think was ever coming.

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It was as if the lightening and the accursed thunder was trying to mock him, as Galahad sat on the muddy ground, sheltered only by a small rocky ridge.

"Fine. You won. It rained. What do I owe you?" He grumbled, shoving a hand into his leather pack.

Gawain grinned. "Thirteen."

Galahad rolled his eyes and removed a handful of coins, tossing them to his friend. Gawain counted them, obviously pleased.

"There's only ten here…" He remarked innocently.

"It's all I have."

"Arthur paid you-,"

"I spent it."

"On _what_?"

Galahad mumbled something and turned away.

"What was that?" Gawain checked, laughter in his voice.

The thunder boomed and the sky split in brilliant blue electricity as rain fell from the now-present clouds in a torrential downpour.

"On a new pair of pants, alright?"

Gawain raised his blonde eyebrows. "What happened to your old ones? Did you ruin them in the battle?"

Galahad thought over seizing the excuse, but Gawain would surely know he was lying, so he saw no point. "No,"

"Well then what-." realization lit up his face. "Oh…"

Galahad blushed profusely again and stared intently out at the open field.

"Ten should work, then." Gawain said, chuckling softly.

In truth, the Roman money was no good anymore, as both men were positive that they would never willingly set foot in the country again.

The hours passed and so did the storm, the sky giving way to sunlight once again, and it bathed the fields in warmth and golden rays.

They had been riding for some hours more when Galahad noticed something glinting in the light. He dismounted and crouched by it, deeply frowning.

It was a dagger.

Somebody had stuck it deep into the ground, hilt sticking out.

Gawain stood beside him, lifting him up gently by the shoulders. The older knight's face was troubled at seeing such a weapon again.

Galahad's eyes were wide and the hand that pulled out the blade was pale. He studied the clumsy design and blew out his breath.

"It's Saxon," he whispered, dropping it in horror.

A beat, then, "let's go, Galahad. Come on…" His voice was soft.

The younger man nodded slowly, turning away sluggishly and walking away hesitatingly.

The two rode in silence for a long time after that, and Galahad did not know if Gawain had realized what he had, but he secretly hoped his friend had.

The Saxons had stolen so many things…

Not just food and supplies, those things were replaceable, but _people_, lives.

Sarmatians.

Tristan, and Dagonet, and Lancelot…

Galahad's blue eyes were sad as he focused sharply on the invisible path ahead of him. Gawain paid him a side glance.

"It had been there a while, Galahad. I don't think anything's happened to our villages…"

He hadn't even thought of his village.

Of what might have happened to it.

When he wasn't there to protect them.

Something else was bothering him…

"We have to go to Lancelot's village," he said softly. "Bors sent a letter to Dagonet's sister, but nobody told Lancelot's family…"

Gawain blew out his breath. "Yeah… yeah we should tell them."

"I know where it is," Galahad offered sadly.

"Alright. How far…?"

"Three weeks ride from that big hill, remember it?"

Gawain furrowed his brow and nodded. "All those years ago…"

Galahad decided not to answer.

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There had been nothing but solid fields for several days now, and Galahad noticed his spirits rise one moment, and falter and drop the next.

They came to hill at sunset, when the grasses were bathed in a gentle red glow and the sun was low and golden in the sky. The red streaks looked oddly like-

-Blood.

But Galahad shook it off as he and Gawain dismounted and walked up the hill in silence. They reached the top, and Galahad felt tears burn his eyes.

He looked behind him, taking a shaky breath.

You could just see Rome in the distance…

Arthur was back there, with Guinevere and Bors and Vanora. All the graves of all the others who _should have been standing there_ next to him now.

But they weren't.

They were dead.

As he should be…

What had given _him_ the right to live?

He didn't deserve this life.

He wasn't as intelligent as Tristan, or as wise as Dagonet, or as brave as Lancelot had been.

He was…Galahad.

And that couldn't be enough.

"Come on…" Gawain murmured, leading his steed across the hill. "We can sleep here tonight."

Galahad nodded, forcing the tears back and following his friend.

A few hours later, they heard the scream.

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TBC

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Review, thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'm not going to give excuses, because you don't want to hear them, and I don't want to list them, so I'll just say this: I'm very, very sorry. It has been far too long, and I doubt this chapter even partially compensates for the wait. Hopefully I can update faster, and bring this story to it's conclusion.

So here you are, chapter two, and I hope that I can start to redeem myself?

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_Still the race of hero spirits pass the lamp from hand to hand_ –Charles Kingsley

He shot up, reflexes that had been burned into him battle after battle for the past fifteen years springing into action.

"Sweet god-," Galahad was cut off as another cry cut into the still night air. The knight jumped to his feet, clenching and unclenching his fist to get his blood circulating again. He looked around wildly, brown curls flying into his eyes.

"Gawain!" He shouted, when he didn't see his friend. "Bloody Hell…"

Shivering slightly, Galahad sprinted out into the open meadow, searching. Looking…

Where was he?

"GAWAIN!" He shouted, listening to his voice echo around him like a phantom ghost.

Breathing heavily, the young man drew out his sword, feeling comfort rise up in him as he gripped the metal hold, the familiarity driving away his fears, giving him back bravery…

If he had ever had courage to begin with.

Looking up at the starry sky, Galahad realized he had never felt so alone. Not when they took him from his family, not when he and Bors had been captured by those damned Saxons, not when he had watched Tristan and Lancelot sink into the ground forever…

His blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, his mind clogged and racing from a million thoughts he didn't want to remember, a million faces he didn't want to see, a million futures that, by some small, impossible chance had not come true.

And still he stood there, one night in a dark meadow in the dead of night, shaking from the cold, the solitude, the eerie silence, and his own twisted fear.

"Gawain…" He said again, but his voice was quieter, and it shook with unshed emotion that drowned his soul in sorrow, but was held back by the stubborn pride that had kept him alive all these years.

He turned desperately to the moon, watching black clouds swallow it, and then unveil it again…

_Galahad_…Whispered the win…._Galahad_…_Go home…Go home…_

_Go home, Galahad_.

And then his heart turned cold as realized something; something that terrified him more than his fifteen years of service to the Roman army, that made him quiver, killing his bravery, forcing him to his knees, destroying him…

He had left Sarmatia sixteen years ago. But it was no longer his home.

Rome, Arthur, the Round Table, _that_ was his home.

All he would have to do is turn back…

And all those dreams, all those times he had woken up with green pastures on his mind…

Had it all been a lie?

He dropped his sword, listening for the clattering of the metal on the ground, but the sound was muffled by the grass. He could no longer hear it.

Who was he?

Galahad, or Arthur's knight?

Where did he belong?

Sarmatia? Or the land that had held him in slavery…

He was nobody…He belonged nowhere…He deserved death; if not for the stabs that had been taken by his brothers-in-arms, than for the traitorous thoughts he was thinking.

He was no better than Gabrieal. No better.

_No better._

The night wrapped around him like a black coat, and it smothered him…Suffocating him…

He was choking…Dying…Losing everything…And he was alone…

"_GALAHAD!" _

Then someone was beside him, helping him up, taking to him.

And he looked into the eyes of his friend, and felt guilt come over him like a tidal wave, swallowing him. Ending him.

"Are you okay? What happened? Did you scream?" Gawain was talking fast, his voice an octave higher than usual, his face pale.

"No, I…" Galahad gave up speaking, sniffing hard to stop the tears.

"I just went out to see how far out we were," Gawain continued, trying to catch his breath. "Then I got lost, and I could not see to find where we had made camp. Then I heard the scream, and I," he cast his eyes downward. "I feared the worst.

Galahad shook his head, shutting his eyes closed tightly. "M'fine," he mumbled.

Gawain sighed, looking behind him. "It's going to be most odd, going home. There are times when I…I hardly remember it…"

"I don't remember it at all," said Galahad softly. "When you say 'home', I-I think of Rome…"

Gawain nodded wisely, replacing his sword and shouldering his pack. "It was home, for a little while. But…" He sighed. "But it wasn't _our_ home…"

Galahad frowned, suppressing a small shiver. "But Sarmatia-,"

"-Is where we were born," Gawain smiled, surprising his younger friend. "But where you are born is not always were you end up in life, as we well know."

Galahad nodded, trying to understand.

"Who knows, maybe we shall find our families, our old homes…Perhaps a girl or five, but I don't think we will ever forget where we _went_…"

"And what if I…" Galahad took a shaky breath. "What if I…_miss_…some things…What if I-,"

Gawain smiled gently. "Then you are better for not abandoning your past."

But Galahad was not convinced, and he sighed deeply. "I feel like a traitor," he whispered, then looked up. "Like Gabrieal. He forgot about Sarmatia, he didn't want to go back…"

"No." The older knight shook his head strongly. "No, Galahad, you will never be like Gabrieal. You stayed…Loyalty, honor, perhaps it was not your duty-," Galahad smiled a little in memory. "-But you fulfilled what Rome demanded of you. That's strength, Galahad."

Silence covered the meadows, crickets sang the night to its fullest.

After a while, Gawain blew out his breath. "Eh," he said. "Where did our horses get to?"

Galahad shrugged. "Back there, I suppose."

"Let's go find out what screamed and bloody _woke us up_, then, shall we?"

And Galahad smiled.

TBC


End file.
